Birthday

My birthday is this week. I will be 52, and for a long time I didn’t think I’d make it this far. You see, my mom died at the age of 38, back in September of 1977. I was 19 at the time and her death sent me into a tail spin that kept me swirling around in a frantic whirlwind of activity for the next 20 years because somehow, in my mind, my mom’s death at 38 meant that I would die at 38, too.

My mom and I were living in Santa Cruz, California at the time. She and my dad had divorced, and after 21 years of marriage and being a stay-at-home mom, my mom wasn’t sure what to do next. She had always loved the ocean and dreamed of living by the sea, so that is what she decided to do. I went with her, partly as an adventure, and partly out of worry – she had a lot of health problems, and having married my dad fresh out of high school, had never lived on her own.

Santa Cruz is a pretty town, right on the coast. At that time it was affordable, and my mom found a little apartment two blocks from the shore. There was a long sidewalk along the cliffs above the sea and we spent a lot of time walking along it, talking and watching the waves and the sea lions, the sea birds, surfers and boats just off the shore.

It seemed odd that my mom loved the ocean so much, because she was deeply afraid of water and couldn’t swim. It seemed particularly odd that she loved walking along those Santa Cruz cliffs, because she was also afraid of heights and the cliffs were steep, slick, and obviously, potentially quite dangerous.

The evening my mom died, she picnicked with a friend near the edge of one of the cliffs. Something happened – no one knows what – and she slipped and fell into the sea. Before anyone could call for help, she drowned. (Imagine…life without cell phones. Her friend frantically trying to flag down a car or get someone to call for help from a house nearby…)

I was too young and too sad and in too much shock to process what had happened. I moved back to Colorado (where the rest of my family still lives) and tried to figure out life without my mom. For years, I’d see someone in a crowd that looked like her and my heart would leap and I would think, “Is that her?” Of course, it never was, but it took me a long time to stop looking for her…

Shortly after my mom’s death, I put myself on a crash course to “get everything done” before my 38^th birthday. (I’ve since read this is a common reaction among young women who lose their mothers - especially to a sudden death - but, knowing I was not alone did not make the urgency to “do it all” by 38 any less pressing.)

I married at 21 and had kids right away. I threw myself into raising my kids as if I wouldn’t be around long enough to see them through. I threw myself into a lot of other things that way, too. And, I had a very hard time committing to things that reflected a belief in permanence. There was never much savings and little or no concern about working any job long enough to earn retirement…after all, I wasn’t going to be here that long…

When our kids were growing up I spent a lot of time with them. We traveled a lot and took them on a lot of fun trips because every moment seemed precious and every year brought me closer to my last…

My 38^th year came and, miraculously, nothing happened. When I turned 39, I breathed a huge sigh of relief. I was alive and well! The curse was over! I had escaped my mother’s fate…But the fear, urgency and expectation of disaster continued, and the voice of doom never stopped whispering in my head…

I remember realizing that my life might, indeed, be only half over when I took my then 90-year-old grandmother to a family wedding in Mexico when I was 45. She was (and still is) quite spry, alert and mobile. We had a good time, but doom still whispered and I continued to move quickly, unsure of how much longer I might have…

It was not until a recent visit to the mausoleum where my mom’s ashes are, that I realized I had the power to silence the fear and hurry that have been my companions since my mother’s death. It had been 20 years since I had been to Santa Cruz and much had changed. The mausoleum, however, was the same – a pretty peaceful place, with lots of big windows, flowers and nice light. It took me awhile to find my mom’s marker and my first reaction, when I saw it, was shock that it looked just the same.

That reaction surprised me - of course nothing’s changed; it’s a mausoleum! Then it occurred to me that while my mom’s story ended, abruptly, on the date on that marker, my story had continued on, but I had been in such a hurry I hadn’t actually experienced it.

As I walked out into the sunlight, I realized that I could honor my mother’s memory and let my story be my own. I didn’t need to harbor the ghosts of her tragedy any longer; I could leave them, along with my sense of doom and urgency, inside those mausoleum walls and simply walk away. And, that is exactly what I did.

So, for the first time in a long time, I welcome my birthday with calm and I look forward to what the year will bring – good or bad – knowing that the ghosts I will tote from here on out, will be my own.

Josie

Josie’s breast cancer is back. She prayed and suffered, worked through and ultimately triumphed over her first bout with the disease a few years ago. Since then she’s earned a Habitat for Humanity house for her family and finally, a couple of months ago, paid off the last of her medical bills. I cannot imagine how hard it must’ve been for her to hear that her old enemy is back; she’s got to fight the fight again; and, this time she’s going to lose both breasts.

Josie is a housekeeper at the hospital where I work, and I have never met a more hardworking, cheerful, optimistic, faith-filled person. While some of the other housekeepers skulk around reading magazines in the bathrooms and talking on their cell phones in corridors, Josie mops, dusts, sweats and hustles, doing the work of two or three. And, she does it with a smile on her face and a cheerful word for everyone she encounters.

A single mother with high standards for how her two children should live, Josie works all the time. And, on a housekeeper’s wage, the time she lost to treatments, surgery and recovery the last time, not to mention all the co-pays, almost got the best of her financially. Not one to talk about her problems or ask for help, Josie suffered in silence and did the best she could.

But, because she is such the hard worker, and such a delightful person, Josie is well-liked in the ER, and her prayers for help were answered in the form of a constant stream of donations, big and small, “to help Josie out.” Literally several thousand dollars were silently and anonymously donated by the ER staff during the months of Josie’s first battle with cancer. We helped with her medical costs, light bills and her rent. We even helped with her kids’ Christmas that year. Josie still cries and thanks the Lord when she talks about how “everyone took care of me and my kids at a time we really needed the help.”

Since Josie’s first cancer a lot has changed in the ER and many of the original folks who had a long history with Josie are gone. Donations this time have been slow coming in. Economic times are harder for everyone and the staff now has a higher percentage of young people just trying to make their own ends meet…I was beginning to worry that we weren’t going to come close to helping Josie the way we did before, and this time her treatment and recovery period is going to be longer and harder.

Then, yesterday, one of the older docs stepped in. He’s a rumpled kind of a guy who wears funny ties. He’s been in the ER long enough to be blunt with patients when the situation calls for it, and sometimes that generates complaints. He’s a quiet fellow who sort of sticks to himself around staff. So, it surprised me when he pulled me aside and asked, “So, with Josie, what are we looking at? How much does she need to make it through this thing this time?”

I told him and then he pulled a wrinkled blank check out of his white coat pocket and wrote it for a very generous amount. As quickly as he appeared, he disappeared, back into a patient’s room, not seeming to need any comment or thanks in reply.

It took me a few minutes to pull myself together, gulp back the tears and go find him to thank him. He wasn’t nearly as comfortable with the thanks as he seemed to be writing the check. “I’m just worried about Josie,” he said. “She works so hard; she doesn’t deserve this – especially not a second time.”

Last night, after I got home, I turned on the football game - a rare thing for me, but I got sucked into the Favre-and-the-Vikings-face-Favre’s-old-team thing. One of the first things I noticed was a deep shade of pink all over the football field. Both teams’ wristbands were pink; the bills of the coaching staff caps were pink; most of the players’ cleats and gloves were pink; the sideline towels were pink; even the refs were sporting little pink ribbons with the NFL emblem in the middle.

“What’s going on?” I wondered. “Has it been that long since I watched a football game? Since when is pink a football color?” Then it struck me, this is a breast cancer thing. About that time I noticed a big pink sign on the sidelines that said, “Catch the Cure!” So…the NFL has hopped on the breast cancer awareness bus. Now that’s some pretty awesome backing.

It occurred to me that what that doc did for Josie today was pretty much the same thing as what the NFL had done by putting all that pink on the field. In both cases, big men had stepped in and made a powerful effort to help women fight a great big foe.

I called the doc, who was still on shift in the ER, and told him about all the pink on the football field, and how that check he wrote was going to make an NFL-sized difference in Josie’s life over the next few months. He just laughed, and said he couldn’t imagine so many big men wearing pink…

“But, for a good cause,” he said, “Why not?”

Chaos

“I’m beginning to think peace is something we make up to keep us from being satisfied with all this luscious chaos.” -- Story People



The Chimney Swifts are gone. They left about a week ago, to fly back to South America, where they will spend the winter. Early in the season, we had only one family of these elegant, little, flying insect eating birds in our old brick and mortar chimney. But, according to the bird websites, after the two broods of the season are raised, the birds share their chimney with other families, in some cases creating a large, temporary colony.

That is what happened in our chimney beginning in early August. Chimney Swifts are a protected species because their numbers are dwindling so, due to the loss of their habitat, which is large hollow trees and masonry chimneys. Apparently, our big, tall, uncapped chimney was an ideal location, as the number of Chimney Swifts living in it continued to grow through August and into September.

By mid-September, every evening, right around dusk, a spectacular aerial show took place in the skies above our house, with hundreds of Chimney Swifts dodging and circling and whirling and diving as they feasted on flying insects and circled our chimney creating a swirling vortex of small, fast-flying, loudly twittering black birds. It was like an elaborate, elegant ballet with our chimney at the center of the stage. (Knowing a single family of Chimney Swifts consumes 12,000 flying insects each day made the performance that much more enjoyable.)

For months, no – actually years - Mr. Clark and I have “been gonna’” get the chimney repaired and have a new cap made for it. Our house was built in 1903 and the chimneys – like so many other things – have fallen into a bit of disrepair. But, in typical Clark house fashion, the “been gonna’s” persisted until something wonderful happened that will justify and prevent further repair work being done – at least for now.
This happens a lot at our house.

For years there has been a colony of bees living in one of our four front columns. In times past, (before the bee fungus started radically decreasing hive numbers throughout the country) there was a veritable swarm of bees flying in and out of the big hole their bee ancesters carved in that column top a long time ago.
Folks walking by always point at the bees and a surprising number ask why we haven’t had them exterminated by now. Why would we? They’ve never hurt us, and bees are a good thing. They’re responsible for a huge amount of the necessary pollination that occurs, even in commercial crops…

Every spring there’s a family or two of some kind of bird that nests in other holes, carved by their bird ancesters, high up on the other front columns of our house. Again, the question comes up – “Why don’t you plug those holes, so the birds can’t get in?” Again, my response is – “Why would I?” The birds aren’t doing any harm and it’s fun to watch them raise their young each year.

One of the carpenters we had working for us (back when there was money, time and interest in home repairs) was so amused by my bird habitat conservation policies that he built little metal roofs over each bird hole.

“Now your precious birds won’t even have to get wet when it rains,” he laughed, at me – not with me - I’m sure.
Right now there are four young squirrels living in the top of one of our front columns. The columns are Corinthian, so there is plenty of room for a squirrel nest, up there amongst all of that embellishment. I see these little guys peaking down at me from what looks to be a pretty perilous perch, as I come and go each day. I’m not sure how they got there or how they’ll escape, as I don’t hear them in the attic and there are no trees near enough for them to jump to. But, they seem to be well-fed, so whatever they’re doing is working for now…

Passersby stop and point them out, laughing at their antics, as the four little squirrel siblings peak their cute little faces over the column top. And, yes, the obvious question is, “Why don’t you do something about those squirrels? They’re going to destroy your column top, you know…”

I have added “find source of replacement Corinthian column tops” to the “been gonna’” list. In the meantime, I continue to look up at them and smile, even as I survey the bees to see how the population seems to be doing today. (Their numbers are dwindling…damn bee fungus!)

I’m comfortable with a bit of a mess around; a touch of chaos suits me just fine. In fact, a lengthy “been gonna’” list and too many piles of things needing organizing is way more comforting to me than an alphabetized spice shelf or a neatly edged lawn.

Life is short and organizing things takes time. Order (at least in my mind) is over-rated and often an illusion. Things happen - good and bad – suddenly and unexpectedly, no matter what state our chimneys, spice shelf or Corinthian column tops are in.

And, should something bad happen to me or mine, I will be glad to have seen the Chimney Swift ballet and cohabitated with the swarming bees. I will remember how much fun it was to watch the birds raise their families, and I will recall how the sight of those four silly squirrels peaking down at me always made me smile.

Delroy

Delroy Winslow died this week. He was 59. A notoriously heavy drinker and often homeless man, Delroy was a “frequent flyer” in the emergency room where I work as a social worker. His blood alcohol levels were legendary – often twice or three times what would make a normal person pass out. But that didn’t stop Delroy, the Timex of drunks. He took licken’ after licken’ and kept on ticken’.

Nobody really knew Delroy’s story because most of the time he spent with us in the ER, he was passed out or asleep, snoring loudly. Occasionally, when it was time to go, Delroy would let slip something about his life or his pas - after the alcohol had worn off and the warmth of a hospital meal had set in to his usually aching and empty belly.

Delroy was Delroy Winslow, Jr., which meant somebody had admired his daddy enough to make Delroy a namesake. He never talked about his mama, except to say she “passed a long, long time ago.” He also never talked about a wife or kids. Tall, thin and muscular, Delroy looked to have been a handsome man, back before the liquor took such a toll. I liked to imagine there was a sad story in Delroy’s past – maybe a pretty wife and several small children, tragically killed in a car accident. Maybe that’s what turned him to drinking – the loss of his beloved wife and loving family…

The thing about Delroy was that he was so likeable – even plum drunk, he was a really nice guy. He never cussed or used the Lord’s name in vain. (“I might be a drunk, but I was raised up right,” he would say.) He was always polite (“Yes, ma’am” and “No, sir” that was Delroy.) And, he would answer any question respectfully and honestly. (“Delroy, why are you here again today?” someone would ask. “I just can’t help myself. I know it’s wrong, but I just love drinkin’ too much,” he would reply.)

Delroy had an aunt and a sister somewhere in South Georgia, and every so often, when his drunken escapades had pushed his old, rapidly tiring body almost to its limit, he would hitchhike “down South” to stay with them for awhile. In a few months, he’d turn up again, passed out on the street somewhere and hauled in by the ambulance, wearing nice clothes and looking a little healthier and fatter than when he’d disappeared.

“How come you don’t stay down South where they take such good care of you?” we’d ask, when Delroy came to after turning up again.

“I love my aunt and my sister,” he would say. “They feed me real good and they keep me in nice clothes, but they make me go to church, and they won’t let me drink, and there’s only so much of that kinda’ livin’ a man can handle.”

Sometimes when he was passed out somewhere, Delroy would get beaten up, rolled and robbed by other, meaner drunks. You see, Delroy had a “job” at a liquor store, toting boxes of booze around. Mostly they paid him in liquor, but occasionally they’d give him a little cash to go get something to eat or buy something warm to wear. And, when Delroy looked well-fed or had on a new coat, that seemed to be the signal for the mean bums to move in.
Delroy was always thankful for the care he got in the emergency room. And, he was always appreciative of the bed, the meal and the bus pass to the homeless shelter, where we knew he never stayed.

I think one of the reasons we all liked him so much was that he seemed like a kind man who life, for whatever reason, had dealt a particularly bad hand. Sure, being a mostly homeless alcoholic indicates a bevy of bad decisions and poor choices, made over and over again. But, somehow, in Delroy’s case, it always seemed like there was a reason he did so poorly – something beyond what could be called his fault – something bigger and sadder and meaner than anything in him.

It was surprising to see the reaction in the ER when we got the news that Delroy was dead. The ambulance crew dispatched to the “man down” call in the “Tent City” (where all the homeless people live) called in immediately. “It’s Delroy. This time he’s really done it; this time he’s dead….”

Word spread fast in the ER and the reaction was the same, over and over again. “Damn! I never thought he’d actually pull it off and drink himself to death…I never thought I’d say it, but I’m gonna’ miss Delroy…He was a good ole’ guy.”

We actually had a moment of silence for Delroy at the Charge Nurse’s desk the day he died, and I heard the crews the next day and the day after that did, too.

Strange how someone so unlikely, who many would consider “unworthy,” can touch so many lives, in such a poignant way. For me, it was Delroy’s resilience and hopefulness. His life was simple; his needs were few; he knew he was flawed , and, he just kept going anyway – always leaving the ER with a smile on his face, and big “Thank you and God bless you!” for whoever he passed by.

Rest in peace, Delroy; and, may your next time around be a little easier and less “spirits” possessed.

Destruction!

“I think that I shall never see a poem as lovely as a tree…A tree that looks at God all day and lifts her leafy arms to pray…A tree that may in Summer wear a nest of robins in her hair…Poems are made by fools like me, but only God can make a tree.” – Joyce Kilmer, “Trees,” 1914

The sound of destruction has been coming from the lot four doors down for weeks. First it was the loud ripping of metal and wood, as they battered and beat the house and garage down. Then there was the sound of the bulldozers, backhoes and dump trucks, as they tore up the concrete garage pad and hauled all that had once been a historic home and recently-built three car garage away.
They didn’t spare the little pink play house in the back or any of the shrubbery. It seems like such a shame - a historic house that had been a cozy home for so many years, and a big, potentially useful garage – gone. I wonder if they even salvaged any of the materials…

Then, last weekend, it got worse – way worse. They took down all the trees on the lot – nine 100-year old oak trees – felled, sawed up and hauled away, in three days time. What were they thinking? Why turn a beautiful, old growth, fully wooded lot into a barren silt pit, devoid of all vegetation? Couldn’t they have found a lot without trees somewhere else?

Why in the world would you buy a lot on a tree-lined street, full of historic homes, then tear down the historic house and cut down all the trees? It just doesn’t make sense.

Some of my neighbors tried to call attention to the destruction, and while the city fathers listened to their pleas, the answer to their questions was that Winder has no ordinances governing the destruction of historic property or old trees. Since historic properties and old trees are two of things that make old town Winder most appealing, that seems like a shame.

Years ago, when I was a house painter, I painted that old house at 146 N. Center Street. It took me months, and I ended up not making much money on the job, but I really enjoyed the work. It was profoundly rewarding to take something that had reached a point of near decay and bring it back to life – protect it, caulk it, fix it, and then cover it with a nice coat of paint.

In the process of painting that house, I got to know the woman who grew up there, and lived in it still. Her name is Lynn Roberts and her father, the late Col. Harry O. Smith, bought that house and the 3+ acres it stood on for $1,000 in 1937. At that time the house had only four rooms, (as Lynn told me over a delicious tomato sandwich and some sweet tea last week.) She remembered how, as a “not quite five-year-old” child the upper two rooms “swayed in the wind on a cold winter night.”

Coming from Atlanta, Lynn said, “we thought we had moved to the wilderness,” but the fully wooded lot and ample space gave the family room to keep horses and gave young Lynn space to roam free.

Eight years later, in anticipation of his second child, Col. Harry O. added a bathroom and a screened porch to the house. He also built Lynn a little play house, which was initially white, but later turned “a rusty red when Daddy painted it with some leftover barn paint.” Lynn has fond memories of playing in that little house (now gone) and I remember imagining what fun it must have been to be the little girl who once played there, as I toiled on the back of the main house.

In 1950 or so, Col. Harry O. added two more rooms to the house, finishing the floor plan to what it was when the home was destroyed. Lynn returned to the house to live with her father and her two children in 1974, after her mother died. She lived there until she and her husband, Ted retired and moved to a more modern and much easier to keep home, on a smaller lot, several years ago.

Lynn told tales of the “horse shows” she and the neighborhood kids used to have, and how they were always fascinated by a “headstone” (actually a discarded Veteran’s marker) they found in the back of the lot. There were stories of ghosts and “many good times,” Lynn said, in reminiscing about her years in that house.

And, now it’s gone.

Lynn said she wasn’t’ surprised the house was taken down, as it had stood empty with a leaking roof for the past couple of years, and “it always had water problems.” She said the lot was “swampy” and the house had been built “flat on the ground.”

“In fact,” she said, “that lot ate up two big rocks and a St. Joseph statue. They just sunk into the swamp and disappeared.”

Like Mr. Clark and I, and so many of the neighbors, Lynn said she was devastated to hear about the destruction of the trees.

Winder’s historic district needs to be expanded to include all of the historic homes in the “Olde Town” area. The city needs to research what other cities have done to protect their historic homes and trees. And, the council needs to adopt stringent ordinances to protect what is quaint, pretty and pure about this town’s history. The magic, beauty, stories and trees that once made 146 N. Center Street special are gone. Whatever replaces it cannot possibly have as much to offer to our city’s future, its history or our collective memories.

The city is asking for citizen input about how the future of downtown Winder will be shaped. A Livable Cities Initiative (LIS) meeting will be held on Wednesday, October 7, 2009 at 6 p.m. at the Winder Community Center; all concerned citizens are invited to attend.

Ed gets a Job!

“Happy days are here again, the skies about are clear again, so let’s sing a song of cheer again, happy days are here again.” – a song written in 1921 by J. Yellen and M. Ager

Mr. Clark went underwear shopping the other day and bought four new pairs. Why is this significant? Because, this indicates hard times are not only over in our home, they may be slacking off in other’s homes, as well.

For years, men’s underwear sales have been an indicator of economic health. In fact, the MUI – men’s underwear index – is tracked with other leading indicators like commodity prices, average weekly manufacturing hours and new unemployment claims. (This according to sources including former Federal Reserve chairman Alan Greenspan, NPR, and The Washington Post.) Since underwear are a necessity, their sales tend to be stable. When times are good, men buy underwear; when times get hard, they stop buying underwear and wear out the ones they have.
Nationwide, men’s underwear sales began to slump last year, just as the recession took hold. In the Clark house, men’s underwear purchases, along with pretty much all other purchases except food, came to a grinding halt with Mr. Clark’s lay-off in July, 2008.

It’s been a long, grueling haul – this past year of unemployment. But, I am proud and so pleased to report it’s over. Mr. Clark has a job again – a good job, with benefits and travel and the type of challenges he dealt with so well during his 25 years as a construction industry computer guy, back when there was a construction industry.

According to reports from retailers, Mr. Clark may not be alone; other folks may be finding work again, too. In a recent Washington Post article, a spokeswoman for Sears said stores are beginning to see more men’s underwear sales, while a spokeswoman for Target said sales have definitely been stronger over the past two months and multi-pair packs are moving again. Some economists are predicting a slow, but steady increase in the MUI through the end of this year and on into 2010. Happy days may, indeed, be - if not here – at least on the way, again.

I sincerely hope this is true – especially for the hundreds of thousands of people who are still out of work in our country right now. We had pretty much hit the wall with regard to money when we got the word that Mr. Clark had been hired. The last of the contract work money had come in, and our reserves were gone. There was enough money left to make the September house payment, and then we’d have to let the foreclosure wheels begin to spin.
Emotionally, we were exhausted, too often angry, tearful, or mean. Being out of work for such a long time will do that to you. It wears you down, destroys your sense of self-worth, and eats at your soul. After a while the person you see in the mirror doesn’t look anything like the person you used to see – the one who had a job, and a life, and some security – the one who used to smile.

It’s hard to look on the bright side when darkness is creeping in all around you. It’s hard to keep the faith; it’s hard to keep on keepin’ on…But, God is good and so are so many people. Family and friends helped out – however they could, whenever they could. People never stopped inquiring about how we were doing and offering words of encouragement. They sent their love, their light and their prayers our way, faithfully, for the whole long past year. And, even in the hardest of times, it was obvious God had a plan, and He was aware of our problems, and if they were to be worked out, He would help us work them out.

It was clear we had much to learn from our financial demise. Some lessons we learned pretty quickly; others we’re still working on...It is clear we must accept this blessing of Mr. Clark’s job, and our return to financial security humbly, thoughtfully, and with great care not to fall back into our past, fool-hardy ways.

My heart goes out to all of those still facing the stress, demoralization, and, at times, sheer terror of prolonged unemployment. May your friends and family help you through, and may you and yours never give up on you. Just when you think you can’t go on much further, something good might just happen - and then you’ll be buying new underwear, too.

Another longtime economic indicator is lipstick sales. During hard times, women buy more lipstick, the thought being it’s a little perk to help one along a rough way. Ironically, I bought two tubes of super-duper long-lasting lipstick last month – one a deep pink, an uncharacteristic color for me. I spent money we didn’t have and I didn’t even feel bad. I wanted people to notice how bright my lips looked – rather than how tired and sad my eyes were – when they glanced my way.

New lip color sales shot up 47% in the first half of this year, but those sales are tapering off now, which means maybe the worst of it is over. Let’s hope so!

Death

Death has always fascinated me. I don’t know why; it just has. So, of course I had to stop and listen the other day, when I stumbled upon an NPR Radio Lab podcast called “11 Meditations on the Moment of Death and What Happens After.”

The first “meditation” involved a doctor named Duncan McDougall, who, in 1907 set out to see if he could prove the soul exited the body after death. Dr. McDougall treated tuberculosis patients, many of whom died. So, he rigged a set of scales which he put patients on when they were about to die.

Back then, the moment of death was considered to be when the last breath was taken, so Dr. McDougall would check the scales just before and right after that. And, he found, on average, patients lost 21 grams the instant they died. He published his research, and The New York Times ran a front page headline that year stating, “Soul has Weight Physician Thinks.”

In 1907 scales were crude, so a weight change of ¾ ounce could’ve been caused by a lot of different things, and 21 grams is statistically insignificant, when factored into a person’s entire body weight, but still…Why the consistent average of 21 grams?

Another of the “meditations” was about changing perceptions in when the time of death is. In Dr. McDougall’s day, and before that, death was considered to be when a person stopped breathing. In the 1960’s, with the advent of CPR (cardiopulmonary resuscitation) the time of death changed to when the heart stopped – for good. A little later, after breathing machines (ventilators) became common, the definition of death became sometime after the brain stopped functioning or when the person was declared “brain dead.” Tricky concept, that…leading to all kinds of difficult decisions about when to “pull the plug,” whether or not to put the person “on the vent”, etc. etc. Tough stuff…

A third NPR podcast “meditation” was a short story about the “final time of death” being “that moment sometime in the future when your name is spoke for the last time.” What a sobering concept – the notion that there will come a time when no one will ever speak my name again…no wonder the thought of a headstone comforts me.

I have worked on the ambulance (as an EMT) and in the emergency room (as a social worker) for the past six years. And, during that time I have seen a lot of deaths. A “good death” is one that comes to a very elderly person, suddenly and silently, without pain or suffering. An example would be having a stroke while sleeping. “He just slipped away,” is what those families say…What a nice way to die.

A “bad death” can take many forms, but it is always unexpected and traumatic, for the person and their loved ones. One of my jobs is to be with people and/or their loved ones while they die. Sometimes this happens quickly; other times it takes what seems like a very long time. During this time and afterward, while “the body is readied for transport” and the paperwork is completed, there is more time spent with the dead. I usually say a prayer, tell the person goodbye, and wish them Godspeed to whatever comes next for them.

Maybe because I’ve been around a lot of deaths (or maybe because I have an active imagination), in a lot of cases it feels like I can sense what the soul is doing, in relationship to the body during these final times. Sometimes, like in the case of a bad trauma, the soul seems to be gone already - nowhere near that body the paramedics roll in, CPR in progress. I sort of wonder, in the case of something like a bad wreck, if the soul is still back there at the scene, wondering what the heck just happened…

In other cases, the soul fights to stay in the body and on this earth. These are probably people who have been strong willed their whole life. Often they have large families gathered at the bedside. They have to be given permission, by the doctors and their loved ones, to go ahead and let go.

“It’s okay, Daddy,” a son or daughter will say. “We know how tired you are. It’s okay to stop fighting and just go home now…”

Sometimes, the soul seems to linger for awhile, and then just sort of fade away, either before or a short while after the time of death has been declared. In a lot of cases, it’s pretty obvious when the vitality, or light, or essence of what made that person that person is gone…Interesting, strange, humbling…

No matter what your thoughts on death are, there is one thing you can do to make a huge positive difference to your family and the doctors who treat you when your time comes – have an Advanced Directive and be sure the people who matter to you most know what it says and where it is.

The only thing worse than facing death or losing someone you love, is to do that without any kind of map showing the route. And, part of that map involves deciding how you want to die with regard to the many medical interventions that can, but don’t have to be, administered when your time comes.

There are a variety of websites that provide information on Advance Directives. Here are a few: www.legacywriter.com, www.caringinfo.org, www.liv-will1.uslivingwillregistry.com. So, please, check them out. It’s heartbreaking to watch a family try to make those difficult decisions at an already really difficult, sad time.

Home

Dorothy was right. There’s no place like home. I just got back from a week in Colorado (my home state), visiting family and old friends, and, it was wonderful. The air was dry, the temperatures cool; the crisp evenings and chilly early mornings made a jacket necessary. Imagine that – a jacket in August!

My dad lives just far enough from the foothills of the Rocky Mountains to have a marvelous view of those magnificent, still snow-topped peaks – yes, there is snow left in Colorado in August…And, he has a wheat farm out on the Eastern Plains, where you can see first hand those “purple mountain majesties” and “amber waves of grain” we sing about in “America the Beautiful.”

We visited the farm, and my Gramma – still kickin’ at 96. I did some hiking and took some really nice long walks. The family’s big on bird feeding, so I got to see some amazing hummingbird action – right up close. And, every evening, in addition to a lot of good food and loud laughter, there was a beautiful mountain sunset to be enjoyed.

My daughter went with me for the first part of the week, and she was amazed at how “happy and comfortable” (as she put it) I seemed to be, there in my native land, surrounded by my earliest family and oldest friends. “Why don’t you move back here, Mom?” she asked me, during one of our mountain walks.

And, that is a question that has haunted me since we moved to Georgia, some 21 years ago. Initially, I gave the Southern experiment two years – if it wasn’t working by then, we’d move back “home.” Then, we figured we couldn’t uproot the kids during elementary school, and by middle school, they were settled in. After that, my moving “back home” became after both kids graduated from high school. But, then they went to Eastern colleges, which meant if Mom wanted to see her offspring with any frequency, she’d have to stay put in Georgia a little while longer…

Surprise, surprise! Both kids married people from Georgia, found jobs in Georgia, settled down and made homes in Georgia, so here I am, “stuck” for good, if I want to continue to enjoy a close vital relationship with my kids, their spouses, my grand-dogs, and eventually, I hope, grandkids.

For years, my dad would ask, “When are you moving back?” And, for years, I’d say, “Maybe sometime soon, Pop.” I think we both saw the handwriting on the wall…He stopped asking a few years ago.

It’s not that Georgia isn’t nice. It is. It’s just it’s not what I grew up with and for that reason, it will never feel like home. When you live the first half of your life in a cool, dry place where the humidity never reaches 40-percent, you never get used to sweating the way I do here.

When you grow up with long open vistas and miles of sky above, you never get used to all the trees, and the short distance you can see ahead here. When you grow up with mountains always on one side of you, clearly indicating west, you never orient to which way is which because all there is to guide off of is a wall of greenery and trees...It goes on and on. The sky colors are different; the air smells different; I miss snow in the winter time. The short bursts of rain so welcome there take the form of days and days, and buckets and buckets, of rain here. And, the harshest cold a Colorado winter can throw at you has nothing on that bone-chilling, damp cold a Georgia January brings…

Conversely, and perhaps ironically, my kids grew up here, so their preferences – their version of “home” – is distinctly Southern. Neither of them likes the cold, and they don’t sweat nearly as much as I do. They grew up surrounded by lush greenery, so the Western landscape looks “sort of brown and dead” to them. While they like the mountains well enough, their preference is for the beach – because that’s where their childhood vacations have been. When they go to Colorado, after a while, they can’t wait to “get back home,” because of a Southern version of all the same kinds of reasons I love being in West.

I told my daughter, during our walk (and my Dad a little later), that after years of contemplation and comparison, I have decided my true home – the home where my heart is – will remain in the South. For as much as I love the places and people of my past, my current and future has been right here in Georgia for 21 years now, and I guess that means I’m here to stay.

Too Quiet

I heard the marching band practicing the other night when I was out in the yard. We live about a mile from the high school, so all that wafts our way is the sound of drums and, occasionally, some brass. It’s always a welcome sound – marching season starting back up. It reminds me of much less quiet times, when my kids were still home and in marching band, and our house was a stop-over after practice, and before games, and after games, and well, a lot of other times, too.

There for years, there was never any quiet in our house. The noise was constant; the activity was never ending; there was always something going on. At the time, I sometimes got tired of it. I used to yearn for some quiet time alone, even as I tried to imagine what such a thing would be like. Now, quiet time is pretty much all we have here…I miss having kids at home.

I always wanted to have a bunch of kids – such a big family that when the oldest ones were getting married, the littlest ones might just be starting school. Being a mom has always been my favorite job, and I never wanted it to end. (Not that grown children don’t benefit from a little mothering, too - it’s just not the same as having dirty little hands to hold and sweaty little heads to nuzzle…)

But economic reality stopped our family at two – a boy and a girl, ages 27 and 25 now. Our kids are close together in age – 13 months apart – so they were always in a collective sort of a stage. They potty trained at nearly same time, gave up car seats at nearly the same time, went to school one year then the next, and on and on it went, until they both needed cars at the same time, went off to college within a year of each other, and more recently, got married – both of them - within two years.

It’s been a whirlwind of activities, rites of passage, sleep-overs, school trips, plays, band and soccer, clubs, birthdays, holidays, having friends over, going off to college, coming home from college, going off to college again, then planning and executing two weddings – one held right here, at our home. Because they were only a year apart in school, my kids always had a large group of the same friends, which meant our house was always full, our fridge was often empty, and it was impossible to buy enough toilet paper or, in later years, keep enough coffee made.

I remember melting down in the car several times during the busiest of those years, while waiting for one or the other of my offspring to get out of yet another band or sports practice, school club or play practice, or lesson of some type. Those activities all had a way of running late, which meant I was too often late to pick up the other child and take him/her wherever he/she needed to be, which only added to the stress.

I remember wondering, during those melted-down times, how much longer I could handle working full-time, while being a decent parent who keeps the house relatively clean and makes sure there’s some food in the pantry, as well as providing 24:7 hospitality and shuttle service. (Back then, Mr. Clark traveled all the time, so in terms of on-site parenting, I was on my own…)

And, then, all at once, it ended.
Both kids grew up, got lives, and moved away.

Now, pretty much all I have is quiet time, and it’s not as precious, interesting and rewarding as I thought it would be.

The story isn’t as bleak as I have, perhaps, made it sound. I am happy and proud of my kids. They have jobs, and benefits, and spouses whom I love dearly. They both have homes that feel warm, welcoming and full of energy and love. Because they stayed close – one in Atlanta, the other in Athens – I get to see them often, and they still, at least on occasion, hang out with the same group of friends who used to cover our TV room floor on a sleep-over night.

I don’t have grandchildren yet, and I am in no hurry, since I have two “grand-dogs” who I see, dog sit, and spoil regularly. We’ve already established “what happens at Pinkie’s (my grandma name) stays at Pinkie’s,” so when the grandbabies arrive, there won’t be any surprises with regard to the amount of affection, treats, noise and happy chaos that will most certainly occur.

I believe things happen for a reason, and things work out the way they’re supposed to, so even though it’s often too quiet and sometimes lonely, it’s okay that I only had two children. It’s okay that both of them grew up and left at the same time. It’s okay that neither of them are in any hurry to have kids.

And, it’s okay that I have all this long yearned for quiet time…thankfully broken up at times, by the sound of a marching band practicing. I enjoy the flood of happy loud memories that it brings.

Too Much!

What is enough? And, how much is too much? These were the questions I pondered driving back from taking pictures of a child’s birthday party at an art studio in Dunwoody the other day.

The child is a lovely little girl. It was her third birthday. And, it appeared that a good time was had by all. But, the whole format of the party seemed like too much. There was a “teacher” who orchestrated the “activity,” which was to “make a very special box to put your wishes and other special things in.”

Nice concept. It’s just there was no one on the guest list older than three and the kids didn’t seem to fully get what was supposed to be going on. It was too much. First they had to put on “very special” aprons and party hats. Then they had to sit in a chair (for way too long for some of them) and try to paint small wooden letters that spelled their names. Then they had to paint the box. Then they had to glue the painted letters of their names to the box lid, along with some feathers and glitter and other “very special” things.

It seemed like a lot to complete in an hour, for a one, two or three year old. Their parents were there, attentively trying to help them and it felt like there were as many expectations in the room as there were balloons. By the time it was time to sing “Happy Birthday” and eat cake, the Birthday Girl and her guests seemed glassy-eyed and over-stimulated.

“When do we eat cake?” was the battle cry, as the little artists finished their boxes, washed their hands, and grabbed a juice box from the cooler. Playing with the ice in the cooler seemed to be more of a hit than making the very special boxes had been.

Another theme for these elaborate birthday parties is the gymnastics party at the kiddy gymnastics place. While a little more age-appropriate, these parties still seem to overwhelm. One of the parties I photographed – this one for a two-year-old – had water bottles labeled with the Birthday Boy’s face, candy kisses with Disney “Cars” stickers on them – applied by the Birthday Boy’s mother, party bags with the Birthday Boy’s face and “Cars” stickers on them, and, sadly, a complete melt down by the Birthday Boy himself. It was all just too much for a two-year-old…

I see too much, too often on the ring fingers of the brides I photograph, as well. I don’t know when it became mandatory to give a girl a $3,000-$6,000-or more engagement ring, but I rarely see a smaller one these days. And, the wedding band that follows is equally spectacular…What happened to the idea of “two young people just starting out” with a subtle, pair of rings that spoke of brighter things to come?

What does a husband buy his wife for later anniversaries if he started the marriage by giving her that much bling? How do you say, “Thank you for spending the last 30 years with me,” if the day you said, “I do” you decked your wife’s hand so grandly that it’s almost blinding to look at when she’s in the sun?

The necessity of the new car or truck payment is another “too much” for me. I see young nurses at work (at the hospital) heart broken that they only get six weeks of maternity leave, and tormented by child care and “getting the baby on a schedule” questions. Later these same young mothers are torn apart when their babies or toddlers get sick, and have to be in child care anyway, because mom can’t get off work.

Why do these women torture themselves this way? Because, they “have to make the car (or truck) payment.” Does it occur to these young families that if they drove older vehicles, there’d be more time to spend with the kids?

I read an article about how the size of the “American Dream” has grown since its’ inception in the 1950’s. Back then the average middle class home was 1,300-square feet; now it’s 2,400. It used to be common for siblings to share rooms. Now everyone has to have their own room, complete with separate bath and walk-in closet. Yards are bigger, rooms are bigger, and a two car garage is a must…

We’ve super-sized ourselves into a lifestyle that leaves us scrambling to make house payments and car payments, buy big engagement rings and plan elaborate parties for toddlers…

I don’t know where I’m going with this, except to say that this Recession may be a good thing. It may force us to scale back a bit, rethink some things, and reign in our expectations. My bet is those three-year-olds would’ve had just as much fun playing in a kiddy pool, then running wild in the yard after the frosting buzz set in. Less is more, but what a hard lesson that is to learn!

Lost and Found

“Those who wander are not always lost.” - J. R.R. Tolkien

There is a new love in my life. His name is Tim. He’s from the U.K. and in the brief time since we’ve known each other, he has changed my life. Don’t worry. Mr. Clark hasn’t been ousted. Tim is the voice in my new little TomTom GPS unit. And, he and I just can’t get enough of each other.

For years I have been lost – everywhere I go, all of the time. I have absolutely no memory for place, direction or land mark. I have no sense of direction, and I don’t pay very good attention. In our family the joke has always been, “Whatever way Mom says to go, go the other way and you’ll get there.” And, almost 100-percent of the time that is right.

You can imagine how hard it is to ferry soccer teams, and birthday parties, and groups of kids places when you have no idea where you are or how to get where you’re going. I did that for years and it was very stressful – for me and my passengers.

Later in life I find myself all too often, stumbling around Atlanta and NE Georgia, trying to find the coffee shop where I’m to meet a prospective photo client bride, or the park where I’m supposed to shoot a family’s portraits, or the gymnastics studio where I’m to take pictures of a kid’s birthday party.

There’s nothing quite as harrowing as getting lost on the way to take pictures of a wedding, and weighing out when to call the bride and tell her that her photographer will be “a little bit late due to traffic,” all the while screaming at Mr. Clark on the phone things like, “I don’t know where I am! If I knew where I was I wouldn’t be lost! Just tell me how to get there!”

And, driving around late at night, making U-Turn after U-turn on some dark Georgia farm road after shooting a “quaint country wedding,” is no way to end a day.

The last of these adventures happened a few weeks ago, when my assistant and I were nearly an hour late to a wedding at some hard to find church on the far side of Buckhead. I had worn Mr. Clark out, yelling at him on the phone to “find me and tell me where to go,” as he sat at home frantically Google mapping possible locations and routes. I had worn my assistant out insisting that she “check the Mapquest directions one more time and see if you can find us on the map…”

I had sweated off all my makeup due to the exertion of all that yelling and I was about to have to call the bride and tell her we’d be an hour late due to “a big traffic jam on I-85” when my phone rang. It was the bride. A funeral at the church had run over time, so “things were running about an hour late,” and, she hoped we could get a cup of coffee somewhere or something…” Whew!

That night when we got home, my assistant and I informed Mr. Clark we had decided the business should buy a GPS, but we needed him to shop around for the cheapest possible system with a voice - there had to be a voice. There would be no more Mapquesting or Google searches for us.

Great minds work in similar ways, so Mr. Clark informed us he had already been shopping and had found a nice little talking unit on-line. It was not new, but recently refurbished and with the $20 rebate, it would only cost $60. Sold! It sounded like such a nice little unit, my assistant ordered one for herself that same night.

And, that is how Tim came into my life.

Since he arrived, Tim and I have been on a couple of little day trips together, to several bride meetings, to a family photo shoot, and to two more Atlanta weddings. And, words cannot express how much I enjoy just going where Tim tells me to go and turning when Tim tells me to turn.

My poor sense of direction sometimes takes over, and I’ll think, “I’m sure when we did the site visit, that church was this way…” So, I veer from Tim’s path to try my own. Tim’s lovely. He never gets angry or yells. He just says he’s “Recalculating route,” then a few moments later he gently, but firmly gets me back on track.

I don’t know yet, how never being lost may change my life. After all, it’s been a 50 year run of never knowing where I am or how to get to where I’m going – both literally and figuratively. I can’t help but wonder if being found on the road won’t carry over into the rest of my life…After all, it’s a different way to travel – being able to sit back and enjoy the ride, knowing you’ll arrive at your destination on time and without a bunch of U-turns…

Wreck

It’s 5 a.m. and I just got home from a 3p.-3a. Emergency Room social worker shift, during which I dealt with two families whose lives have been forever altered by a bad wreck on the Athens 10 loop.

According to the police, “the vehicle flipped multiple times.” One person was instantly killed, the other was transported to the ER badly injured. There was a baby car seat with some blood on it in the vehicle, but no sign of a baby in the seat or on the scene. Later we found out the baby was with a relative – nowhere near the vehicle when his mother died, in that unfortunate, terrible wreck tonight…

Horrible, horrible stuff – telling the deceased woman’s family she had died, then telling the surviving patient’s family the neurologist “has yet to determine the possible extent of the damage done by the head injuries sustained in the accident,”…Lots of people, lots of tears, lots of inconceivably awful emotions and phone calls and physical reactions there in the ER amongst those folks on this night…

I cried for both of the families I dealt with tonight, as I drove home from work on those eerie deserted 4 a.m. roads, in that weird 4 a.m. fog and non-light…One family is now dealing with an unimaginable loss. The other is gathered in an ICU waiting room trying to cope with “neurological complications as yet undetermined” and other severe injuries…

As I pulled safely into my driveway, I wondered why it’s okay for us all to have our heads so far up our behinds. There is stuff that really matters in this life, and there is stuff that does not, but must be dealt with anyway…
Flash forward to another part of my life – Barrow Journal columnist/writer. This week’s paper came out today, and partly as a way to fall asleep, and partly as a way to keep current, when I got into bed, I opened up this week’s issue…

A big drug bust by the Barrow County Sheriff’s Office in conjunction with other law enforcement agencies - 41 arrested, 59 warrants still pending – excellent work! Drugs are a terrible problem and a personal curse on all those who can’t escape their grip…

There was the verbage back and forth about the county CFO personnel board hearing…maybe the CFO did something wrong – maybe she didn’t…It’s not clear by anything the board of commissioners or personnel review board said…But, then, why do we care? She’s only the person in charge of the county’s finances during a time of major economic crisis for our county…

And, there’s the he said/she said amongst The Barrow Journal bloggers about what’s going on in local politics…I’m sorry, but an opinion worth reading amongst all those anonymous blogger comments is rare…so negative, mean spirited and ill spoken, so many of those comments are…

Barrow County’s CFO needs to simply tell the board what’s happening with the budget, stop generating controversy and earn her keep…Barrow County’s Personnel Review Board needs to do its’ job, which is to decide if employees are unfairly punished, and if so, rectify the situation with something more substantial than double-speak…

Barrow County’s chairman needs to stop, think and breathe a lot more often before he issues yet another poorly thought-out edict or another rashly uttered statement…

And, we all need to get back in touch with what really matters, which is that if we have a few folks who love us and we are still blessed with good health and a little bit of wealth, and are not dealing with a death in the family – then, we are okay.

As I have written about frequently during the past few months, my husband’s unemployment continues and my middle-class lifestyle is crumbling right before my eyes. But, no one is sick, no one has died, and, I am still surrounded by those whom I most love…for that, I remain profoundly thankful.

Challenges, whether they be personal or political, are simply challenges. They are not life altering events like that really bad wreck on the Athens 10 loop tonight…